


So I Can See You Lie To Me

by Shopgirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shopgirl/pseuds/Shopgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world of commercial aviation isn't all tray tables and first class seats. When Grounder Aeronautics threatens to put Griffin Industries out of business courtesy of some patent politics, Clarke finds herself faced with a tough decision: risk everything to get inside Grounder or watch her father's legacy disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So I Can See You Lie To Me

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my head for months and I decided it was just time to share it already. Hope you enjoy & would love to hear what you think!

It's just before nine in the morning when Raven bursts through the doors of my office and tosses a thick magazine onto the desk in front of me. It lands facedown, and a very serious tennis player sporting an expensive watch smolders up at me from the back cover.

Taken aback and still lacking the requisite amount of coffee for deductive reasoning and problem solving, I blink a few times, then turn my attention to Raven.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Sorry," Raven apologizes, "landing upside down kind of ruined the dramatic effect."

As she turns the magazine over, I understand why she's brought it to me.

There, on the front cover of this month's issue of Fast Company is Lexa Woods.

Or, more accurately, her silhouette. She's never allowed anyone to photograph her. In fact, this is probably as close as anyone's ever gotten. She's like Bigfoot, but instead of folklore and blurry pictures, she's got a multibillion dollar company. I suspect that the persona is just an elaborate PR stunt, but it's certainly one that works.

Notoriously reclusive and famously enigmatic, Lexa is the CEO and founder of Grounder Aeronautics--the foremost company in air travel in the world and, consequently, our competition. To be fair, though, I don't know if you can use the term 'competition' to describe a company that's at the global forefront of the industry whilst yours struggles to stay just above the break-even point. We're both based in Denver, but one of us operates out of a network of warehouses whilst the other occupies its own massive industrial campus. 

I'm about to say some objectively not-nice words to Raven for bearing bad news before the day has even properly started, but my mother chooses this moment to storm into the room, exasperated.

She's moves to toss another magazine onto my desk, but spots the copy that Raven provided me with just a moment ago and stops short.

"Oh," she says stiffly, "so you've seen it."

"Only just," I respond. "Raven brought it in."

"I see," my mom says, visibly deflating now that the drama of delivering the news herself has effectively gone out the window. "And?"

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, not really wanting to discuss the finer points of a strategy to combat being overshadowed in the public eye just now.

I'm saved from having to launch into it, though, when Kane tumbles through my door like a whirling dervish. He looks at my mother, Raven and I for a moment, his eyes wide before he opens his mouth to speak.

"Did you--"

"Yes," the three of us answer in unison. 

He shakes his head, then collapses clumsily onto the couch near the opposite wall. "This is bad," he sighs, stating the obvious. "We haven't secured that LMN contract yet. We need that. We need them to want to work with us."

"I know," my mom nods.

"If we lose them--"

"I know, Marcus," my mom repeats, this time with a bit more biting finality in her tone.

"What are we going to do?" Raven asks, her arms folded across her chest.

For a long moment, the room is silent.

We're the leadership of Griffin Industries--the distant number two name in commercial aviation. We've just been dealt something of a crushing blow where business is concerned and we're all seemingly dumbfounded into inaction.

My dad started this company twenty years ago, and even though it's been five years since we lost him, there's still a massive, gaping hole where Dad's unflappability, ingenuity and bravery belong.

My mom, Abby Griffin, is the CEO and current president. She's smart and hardworking and totally out of her depths when it comes to the social side of this business. She's tough, but fair, and would probably much prefer the media stay far, far away from the aeronautics industry.

Marcus Kane serves as the VP under my mom. He's level-headed and pragmatic, but worries often: about my mom, about the future of this company, about what color we've chosen to paint the conference rooms, and about a host of things in between, all with varying degrees of importance.

Raven is my best friend and our Head of Mechanical Engineering at Griffin. She's saved my life exactly twice and I will likely owe her close to a thousand favors by the time I finally do kick off and she's unable to intervene. She is the most intelligent person I've ever met, and as such, her friendship is often equal parts blessing and burden.

I'm just Clarke. I don't exactly have a title here, but I like to think my job carries similar weight. For the most part, I fix problems. And if the last year is anything to go by, I'll never have to worry much about job security.

xxx

After much persuasion and many assurances, I finally manage to coax the three of them into returning to their respective offices and leaving me to come up with a plan to keep ourselves in the public eye and out of Grounder’s shadow. Which I will most certainly do, after I've had a chance to drink at least some of the rapidly cooling coffee on my desk. After all, there's not much we can do right now, short of buying every copy of the magazine off of the newsstands, and we definitely don't have the budget for a stunt like that.

I take a sip, relishing the quiet. That is, until the door is forced to endure further abuse at the hands of Wick, who bursts forth into the room, a welding helmet pushed up on top of his head and a heavy apron covering his clothes.

"Clarke," he begins, panting as though he's just run a 5k rather than a hallway, "we have a problem."

It takes all of the restraint I'm capable of mustering to refrain from removing him from my office by force using the ties on that awful apron.

"I'm aware, Wick," I say, impatience finding its way into my tone. "Raven's already been here."

"Raven? What? No," he shakes his head, "this isn't about the stupid magazine."

Oh, good. More bad news.

"It's the combustion manifolds," he says, throwing himself into the chair in front of my desk. When he neglects to explain further, I prod him. 

"What about them?"

"They're not ours."

"Not ours?"

"Well, I mean, they are ours. But not technically. Not totally. Not yet, anyway."

"What do you mean? We filed the patent weeks ago. They can't be anyone else's."

Wick blows out a sigh. "That's just it," he says, ducking his head. "It never got filed."

My blood runs cold and I halt with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

"What do you mean it didn't get filed?"

"I don't know," he says, "I called to check in on it because I hadn't heard anything. They don't have it. As far as the patent office knows, it never arrived."

"So it was--"

"Intercepted. Yeah."

We sit in silence for a moment.

"Who could've--" I begin, but Wick cuts me off.

"Do you really have to ask?"

He has a point. The answer's obvious.There's only only employee who's left Griffin Industries in the last six months, and he just happened to work in R&D, handling patent filings.

“Pike."

"The one and only," Wick sighs.

“Dammit."

“Agreed," Wick nods.

"Is there anything we can do? We can't lose this patent. Grounder's breathing down our necks. We need a foothold."

"I know," Wick says, sighing and sitting back in the chair. "I called in a few favors to get some info on what they're up to. I don't know much, but I do know that they're working on replicating our design from the illustrations on the filing. And from what my sources say, they're close."

"Sources? Who?"

“Can't tell you. But I trust them. And if they're as close as they says they are, we don't have a lot of time."

Of course we don't. Very much par for the course here.

“So we've got to do something. Now." I say it slowly, stating the obvious to give my brain a chance to catch up. 

The problem is that patents move slowly. We're months behind now, and racing to beat the biggest name in aviation at a game that we have little to no control over. I'm not sure there's anything we can do, short of thwarting their paperwork, which I wouldn't rule out if it weren't impossible. 

I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears as the reality of this impending death knell sets in. This is my father's company, his legacy — my legacy. Hundreds of people depend on Griffin Industries — people with families and bills and dreams. Losing their jobs because of a patent war would be a crushing blow to each of them. I can't let that happen. 

That said, I'm not sure there’s much I can do to prevent it.

"Any ideas?" Wick asks.

I don't answer right away, partially because I don't have any real ideas, but mostly because I can feel the beginnings of a very bad idea forming in my mind.

All at once, it coalesces and washes over me like a sudden summer rainstorm.

"Clarke?" 

I'd almost forgotten that Wick was here. I turn my attention back to him, my very bad idea now fully formed. The thought of it makes my stomach turn, but maybe it’s like Dad always said: sometimes you've got to let the end justify the means.

"Yeah," I say, taking no joy in this. "I've got an idea."

xxx

"You're going to do _what_ , now?" 

My mother is balking at me from behind her desk. She's standing, her palms flat on its surface. 

"It's our only move," I say coolly, trying to ignore the way Kane is pacing near the window.

"Clarke--"

Before she manages to start in on her tirade, she's interrupted by the door hitting the wall as it swings open and Raven rushes into the room. 

"Hell no, Princess," she seethes. "There's no way I'm letting you run off behind enemy lines to right that shit smear Pike's wrongs." She's so angry that her cheeks are flushing. I'd tell her that she's pretty when she's mad -- something that's always been good for redirecting her anger -- but I know better than that. "We'll figure something out. He can't just completely fuck us like that and walk away unscathed."

I shake my head. "We don't have time for anything else."

Raven huffs angrily, the small strands of stray hair that have escaped her ponytail blowing aside. "Clarke, don't," she says, her voice raw with anger and heavily guarded concern. "This is stupid. We can find another way."

I smirk at her, trying to assuage her worry. "We can't."

Kane stops pacing and finally says something. 

"This is corporate espionage we're talking about, Clarke." His expression is stony and the lines in his face seem to deepen. "This is serious. If you can't pull this off or you're caught, we'll go down anyway. We’re talking prison time."

I nod. I know the risks. Still, I have a plan, and this is the best way--the only way--to keep the company intact. Whatever the risks, it's the only move that'll put us ahead. It just has to work first.

"Fine," my mom says, her expression a familiar mask of cold pragmatism. "What's the plan?”

“The less you know, the better,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no reason for you to be involved. In fact, we never had this conversation at all.”

I don’t even finish that sentence before my mom levels me with a look. “Forget it. You do this very carefully and with help or not at all. Got it?"

xxx

"Wait," Jasper says, shaking his head as he turns around in his chair to look at me directly, narrowing his eyes, "this is a joke. Right?"

He and Monty sit side-by-side in the dark and chilly IT room. There are plenty of lights, but they decide not to use them, preferring it cave-like; the only light in the room comes from a couple of lamps and their respective bays of half a dozen large monitors.

Monty pipes up next to him. "I don't think it is," he says quietly. "Clarke, are you sure?" 

As if every other person who isn't on the inside of this strictly need-to-know circle hasn't already asked me that.

"You know, Monty," I begin, my voice heavy with sarcasm, "you're the first person to ask. And now that you mention it, maybe it isn't such a great idea."

Monty nods sincerely, clearly missing the deadpan tone of my voice until Jasper elbows him sharply in the ribs.

" _That_ was a joke," Jasper hisses.

"Can you do it or not?" I ask impatiently.

Monty and Jasper look at one another for a moment, communicating silently before they turn back to me.

Jasper nods once, "Definitely."

xxx

"I'm sure everyone you've spoken to about this has told you that it's a stupid idea."

It isn't a question. It's not really even laced with concern. In fact, Bellamy isn't even looking at me as he says it. He's busied himself with some half-dismantled camera on the workbench on the far side of the room.

"They have," I confirm.

"Good," he nods once, "then I won't waste time trying to convince you otherwise. What do you need?" He turns around to face me, leaning against the workbench with his arms folded across his chest. 

I should've come to Bellamy first. He tends to understand the ruthless ingenuity required to defend yourself and your people in an industry as large and rapidly consolidating as ours.

"I need help getting around the complex once I'm in," I say, taking a seat on the table near the door. "There's a non-descript listing for an executive assistant. Almost nothing in the way of actual information — it's probably getting coffee for some no-name deputy vice president or something suitably low-profile. It's a perfect in. I'll get inside, track down our patent application for the combustion manifolds and wipe it from their system."

"Yeah," Bellamy scoffs, "if you were even remotely qualified for that job. And if your last name was something slightly more innocuous than 'Griffin'," he smirks. "That tends to stand out in certain circles, Clarke."

"I'm having Monty and Jasper create something of a new identity. Nothing crazy. Just enough to stand up to Grounder HR's scrutiny."

"Plenty crazy, then."

I ignore him. “I know you’re not suggesting that I can’t handle an executive assistant job."

He smirks, shaking his head s head in a way that clearly says 'your funeral'. 

"So once you're settled in the executive wing, you need a way to get a way to the R&D labs without drawing attention," he says. "You'll need a keycard. Someone else's. There's no way they're going to give an assistant that kind of clearance."

"That's where you come in?" I say hopefully. 

Bellamy shakes his head. "Right. Should've seen that coming. You need me to go in, too."

"Only briefly," I assure him. "Grounder's got a standing date for a weekly shipment of standard weight motor oil."

"So you want me to pose as a truck driver and trespass on heavily guarded property so that I can risk incarceration to get you a keycard which you'll then use to access a highly restricted area of the world's largest aeronautics company?"

I open my mouth to offer him an out, like I did Jasper and Monty, to tell him that it's my plan and I understand if he wants to stay far away from it.

He beats me to the punch, though. "I'm in," he says.

"Really?" 

"You really think I'd let you go in there alone?"

How very Bellamy of him. 

"Someone has to keep you from landing ass-first in a fancy corporate cell if they catch you," he says.

"Very funny," I deadpan, "the vote of confidence is inspiring."

His tone changes from teasing to rough and grave in an instant. "You're sure this is the only way." 

It isn't a question, but I nod anyway.

"When?"

"As soon as I land the job."

xxx

"Do I look okay?" I ask. Raven's slumped in the chair next to my desk, still sulking angrily at my refusal to reconsider the plan.

"You look like an asshole." 

I ignore her, knowing she's just lashing out. "Is the jacket too much?"

She sighs heavily and makes a big show of getting out of the chair.

"Yes," she says, slipping it off of my shoulders. "You smell like money and you look like someone who should be running the place, not getting coffee and doing battle with fax machines."

Brow furrowed in concentration, she sets to work rolling up my sleeves and pulling my hair back into a bun that's a little messy but still manages to look halfway professional.

She's just finishing when my office door swings open and Octavia steps in.

"Are you the stupidest person on this planet or did someone put you up to this?"

Octavia's just returned from Vancouver, where she was on a client relations trip to push through a massive contract. Now, she's standing in front of my desk with her hands on her hips while her eyes dance with anger.

"Nice to see you too, O," I say, ignoring her question. "How was the trip?"

Raven steps back to stand next to Octavia and inspect her handiwork.

"A waste of time," she huffs. "LMN is playing hardball. Now answer me: did someone put you up to this? Was it my idiot brother?"

Raven smirks and bumps Octavia's shoulder with her own in a silent greeting. Octavia grants me a moment's reprieve from her glare when she shifts her attention to Raven and smirks brightly before she turns back to me and resumes trying to set me on fire with her eyeballs.

"Well?"

"It was my idea," I say, looking over my outfit in the mirror on the far wall. I can feel Octavia glowering behind me, but decide not to elaborate.

"And?" she barks.

I look at the clock over the door. "And," I say, blowing out a sigh, "I have a job interview." With that, I pick up my bag from the chair by the door. 

I attempt to make a break for it, but she catches my arm before I can get around the heavy door and turns me to face her.

"Don't think you can shut me out of this, Clarke," she says. Her face is etched with anger, but concern softens its edges. "We'll talk later."

I nod.

"Alright. Good luck," she says, releasing my arm and smoothing the shoulder of my shirt. "And be careful."

xxx

"Clarke Lewis?"

I almost don't answer when a short, stout woman in the cavernous, sterile lobby of the Grounder Aeronautics building calls the name that matches the ID that Monty and Jasper fabricated for me. 

_"Get it?"_ Jasper had said, _"Lewis. Like Lewis and Clarke. Do you get it?"_

I wish I'd had the luxury of time so that I could force him to change it but much to my chagrin, I had not.

"Oh, um, me. That's me," I say awkwardly as I stand from the hard metal chair and return issue of Fast Company to the small table beside it.

"Come with me," she says, turning and making her way down an adjacent hallway. She's short and pretty and looked devastatingly bored when she was behind her desk, but she moves across the tiled floor now at an impressive clip. 

I jog a few steps to catch up to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are focused on elevator doors at the end of the hall and her jaw is set in a hard line as she forages ahead without a word.

"This place is really nice," I say lightly, hoping that it'll coax her into a conversation that might cover up the awkward silence.

"Hmph."

Right. Awkward silence it is, then.

After a short-lived but eerily quiet elevator ride, the doors slide open to a floor that's seemingly comprised exclusively of frosted glass and ringing phones. The woman exits the elevator and I hurry to catch up once more.

"In here," she says curtly, gesturing towards a large conference room. Once I've crossed the threshold, she grabs the door's metal handle and says, "someone will be with you in a minute," before she pulls it closed.

Inside is your standard long table, surrounded by leather chairs that put Griffin's standard Ikea Business office chairs to shame. I take a seat in the chair to the immediate left of the head of the table, hoping that's a safe enough bet for an interview in an empty conference room.

Before I have adequate time to over think my decision and move, the door to the conference room opens again as a very large bearded man enters the room, followed closely by a young woman, maybe a little bit older than I am. 

\---

The interview has, up until now, gone relatively smoothly. Gus’s questions have been appropriately difficult, but nothing I haven’t been able to handle. The girl next to him — his own assistant, I assume — hasn’t said a word, but has been jotting furiously on the legal pad in front of her. Her handwriting is illegible from where I sit, but I have a feeling that if I weren’t being seriously considered she wouldn’t be writing anything at all.

Gus is surprisingly soft-spoken considering his stature. He towers over the table, even sitting down. His beard is well-kept but lends an air of gruff unconcern to his presence. He asks questions that are pointed and unapologetic, and he doesn’t stray far from the point except when I bring up my college fencing team. 

It’s not a difficult interview, really and after nearly an hour, I can feel the interview winding down as Gus asks if I have any questions about the company. I ask a few polite questions that I already know the answers to — things like market share, year-to-year growth and talent acquisition. Gus offers me the job on the spot and has me sign a short novel’s worth of paperwork before I remember that there’s a pretty important question that I should pose before I leave this room.

“Just one more question," I say, feeling stupid for not bringing it up earlier. "Er, who is it? I mean, who am I...assisting?"

The girl next to Gus puts her pen down and looks at me for a long moment. For the first time since she entered the room, I notice her eyes: bright green and curious behind those glasses.

"Me," she says simply.

I'm confused into silence. I'd just landed a job as an assistant…to an assistant?

My mouth opens to form a question, but it makes no sound. I grapple desperately with my brain to come up with some kind of polite and socially acceptable response, but I come up empty.

A whisper of a smirk lifts the corner of her mouth as she removes the glasses from her face and places them atop the legal pad. Slowly and deliberately, she stands, then looks at me expectantly, indicating that I should do the same.

I oblige clumsily, wincing as my chair hits the corner of the table with an indelicate ‘thud.' 

"Lexa Woods," she says coolly, extending her hand towards me. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Clarke."


End file.
